Four Women
by allthingsdecent
Summary: After a suicide attempt, House is visited by the important women in his life.  Takes place in a Season 8ish world.
1. Chapter 1

Four Women

He didn't remember much. He didn't remember taking the pills. He didn't remember Wilson breaking down the door. He didn't remember the gurney, the bright lights, the ambulance ride, getting his stomach pumped.

He remembered, vaguely, feeling like shit and wanting it all to be over.

And now, in his room, he remembered hovering, concern, murmurs, hands on his forehead, hands on his wrist. The steady beat of a heart monitor.

He opened his eyes. Wilson, looking like he was going to cry.

He closed them.

Opened them again, an older woman—his mother?—saying his name over and over again: "Greg, Greg, Greg, Greg . . ."

He closed them again.

Opened them.

A woman standing by his bedside—tall, lithe, regal.

Stacy.

"You idiot," she said.

"I'm feeling much better," he said. "Thanks for asking."

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"That I would never have to have a conversation like this again."

"It's not funny, House. That wasn't a suicidal gesture. That was an actual suicide attempt."

"I'm a go-getter," he said. "I don't like to do things half way."

"If Wilson hadn't come at that precise moment. . ."

"He always liked to get in the way of a good time."

"You took the coward's route," Stacy said.

"I never said I was anything less than a coward."

"The man I knew was a not a coward."

"I'm not that man anymore."

"Of course you are."

"You have no idea, Stacy. You have no idea what I've been through."

"I know everything," she said. "All of it. Cuddy. The car. Prison. But I never took you for a quitter."

"I didn't quit on the world. The world quit on me. There's a difference."

"Bullshit," she said.

"It's gotten so much worse than you can possibly imagine," he said.

"What? Your leg?"

"It started with my leg. Yes."

"We both know that when you're happy, you can manage the pain."

"Happy?" he chuckled grimly. "What's that?"

"Wilson said you were happy."'

"For a blink of an eye, Stacy. It was an illusion. A cruel joke the universe played on me to show me the good life that I can never have."

"God. When did this self-pity creep in?" she said, derisively. "The Greg House I knew would hate the pathetic shell of a man lying in this hospital bed."

"Believe me, he does."

She shook her head.

"What happened to you, House? You had confidence. You were funny. Sexy. Yes, you were an asshole sometimes. But you were a swashbuckler, a hero."

"Heroes don't drive their cars into other people's homes," he said.

"No, but they save lives."

"I save complete strangers lives," he said. "And I ruin the lives of everyone who is stupid enough to love me."

"You didn't ruin my life," she said evenly.

"Didn't I?"

She paused. "No. . . not ruin. You put me through the ringer, but I emerged stronger. And for that, I'll always be grateful."

"Hooray for me," he said ironically.

"And you know, despite it all, I've never stopped loving you," she said.

"Then you're a bigger fool than I thought."

"Perhaps. But I've always thought you were worth loving. I still feel that way. I only wish you agreed."

He closed his eyes.

####

More voices. Shadowy figures. The stench of concern. His mother again, "Greg, my baby. My son. . ."

He kept listening for the one voice he wanted to hear. But she wasn't there.

####

He opened his eyes again. A beautiful, wide-open face, practically moist with compassion: Cameron.

"How are you feeling?" she said softly.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came as soon as I found out."

"But why?"

"Why? Because you're my mentor. My teacher. My. . .friend. Because I still care about you."

"Why?"

"Because you're a good man, House. Underneath all the sarcasm and the bile— you've always been a good man."

"You've always _wanted_ me to be a good man."

"I saw the real you," she said, stubbornly.

"You saw an idealized version of me. The real me is a terrible person."

"Everything you did—even the bad things—was always for a reason," she protested. "To get to the truth. To save a life. To teach a valuable life lesson."

"Then why did I drive a car into Cuddy's house and nearly kill four people?"

"What?" she said, genuinely taken aback. "You wouldn't do something like that."

Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at her. Saw the shock registering on his face.

"So you hadn't heard," he said.

"No! And I . . .don't believe you would do something like that."

"Believe it."

"But. . .why?"

"Because I was out of control. My whole life has been spiraling out of control."

"There must've been some reason. Some greater good you were trying to achieve. . ."

"No. I'm a miserable son of a bitch. And I want the whole world to be as miserable as I am."

"Cuddy must've done something to provoke you."

"No," he said. "Her only mistake was being stupid enough to love me."

"I was. . .stupid enough to love you."

"But you don't really know me, Cameron."

####

Darkness again. Fewer voices. A kind of eerie calm. The damn heart monitoring still beating. He couldn't even kill himself right.

He opened his eyes.

A woman was curled up, asleep in a chair next to his bed. He squinted. It couldn't be. . . But it was her.

_He used to watch her sleep. He used to watch her sleep and watch the rise and fall of her chest and marvel over his dumb luck._

"Cuddy," he said softly.

She stirred, blinked, woke up.

"Hi," she said groggily.

"You came," he said.

"Apparently so."

"But why?"

"I'm not so sure myself," she admitted.

"I never thought I'd see you again."

"You never thought you'd see _anybody _again," she said.

He gave a grim smile. She was always so good at calling him on his bullshit.

"There's so much I want to say to you," he said.

"Don't House. Not now. Just focus on yourself. Focus on getting better."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"But death means never having to say your sorry, right?" she said.

"I'm not dead."

"But you wanted to be."

"Yeah. . .But I'm here now. And I _need_ you to accept my apology."

"If it means you'll stop hurting yourself. Yes, House. I accept your apology."

They were quiet.

"Why'd ya do it?" she asked finally—almost a plea.

"Because I fuck up everything beautiful that I touch."

He looked at her.

She got up from the chair. Took his hand.

"If you died, a part of me would die, too. You know that, right?"

"No," he said. A stray tear rolled down his cheek. He hadn't even realized that he'd been crying. "I didn't know that."

"No matter what has happened between us, you're in my heart. You're part of me. I'll never stop loving you."

"Take me back," he said, not afraid to let the desperation register in his voice. "I'll leave Princeton. I'll follow you anywhere. To the end of the earth. I'll make it up to you. To you and Rachel both. . .I want to to be happy again."

"We'll see, House. Just close your eyes. Try to get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

####

Sunlight pouring through the curtains. House blinked at the light.

Wilson was sitting in the chair next to his bed.

"Welcome back, friend," Wilson said, with a soft smile. "Thanks for scaring the shit out of me."

"Sorry," House said.

"It's okay. It's good to sink to the bottom. You have no place to go but up."

"Leave it to you to put an optimistic spin on my suicide attempt."

"I mean it, House. And I'm going to help you every step of the way."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

But he smiled, to let his best friend know how much he appreciated him.

"So where are the four femme fatales?" House asked.

"Excuse me?"

"My mother. Cameron. Stacy. . .Cuddy."

"What? They're not here, House."

"What do you mean they're not here? They all came to visit me last night—to see me."

"House you've been unconscious for the past two days. No one has been here, except for me."

House's mouth dropped open.

"But Cuddy. . .she was here. In that chair. She told me she loved me," he said.

"House, you dreamt it."

House was quiet for a long time.

"And my mother? Stacy? Cameron?"

"No, House. Just me and the doctors."

"It all seemed so real. . ."

"The subconscious is a vivid place," Wilson said. "Especially yours."

"Fuck," House said, under his breath. "I thought she still loved me. I thought she was going to forgive me. . .I'm such a fool."

"You thirsty, House?" Wilson said, deftly trying to change the subject. "You want me see if I can wrangle you some fruit juice from the cafeteria or something?"

"I'd prefer a scotch neat," House said. "But I'll take the fruit juice."

Wilson smiled wearily, got up.

When he left the room, he approached a woman in the waiting area.

"You didn't go visit him last night, did you?" he whispered.

"No," Cuddy said. "I . . wanted to, but I didn't dare."

"He was talking crazy. He said you'd been to see him."

"I hope you didn't tell him I was here."

"No," Wilson said, somewhat testily. "You asked me not too, so I didn't. But I wanted to, Cuddy. He was crushed. He thought you forgave him."

Cuddy sighed, looked down at her hands.

"You are going to go see him, right?" Wilson said. "I mean, you drove 8 hours in the middle of the night to be here."

"To make sure he was alive."

"You knew he was alive yesterday. But you stayed a second night."

Cuddy closed her eyes.

"I can't leave yet," she admitted. "I don't know why. But I can't."

"Then go talk him. It's what you both want."  
>"I don't know if I can. . ."<p>

_To be continued. . ._


	2. Chapter 2

When she was sure he was asleep, Cuddy crept into House's hospital room.

She stood next to his bed, watching him breathe. He had kicked the blanket to the foot of the bed, as he often did. It was bunched up at his feet. (When they dated, she was always cold; he was always hot. He used to call her his "cold mama.") In his hospital gown, with his eyes closed (everyone swooned over House's eyes but she was partial to his lashes, long like a girl's), he looked peaceful to her, almost innocent.

"I could kill you," she whispered, then laughed at the irony of her statement.

_She used to watch him sleep. She used to watch him sleep and marvel at how still he was and wonder if she would ever be able to quiet all the noise in his head. But of course, she couldn't. Nobody could._

She had an urge to touch him, but she didn't want to wake him up, blow her cover.

Instead, she said quietly: "Please get better, House."

And then she left the hospital and drove back home to Washington.

######

Two days later, House looked up from his hospital bed and groaned.

Dr. Andrew Ratner, the head of psychiatric services, was standing in the doorway.

"My, my, what an unpleasant surprise," House said.

"You know we can't let you go until I sign the release form, House," Ratner said, closing the door behind him. "We may as well just get this over with."

"You do realize that even if you shrink my head to half its size, I'll still be twice as smart as you?" House said.

"Yes, I realize that," Ratner said. He wasn't about to be rattled by House's sarcasm–or his superior intellect.

House gave a slightly satisfied smirk.

"So how does this work? I'm already lying down. Y0u want me to _stand up_?"

"I just want to talk for a bit," Ratner said, pulling a chair up alongside the bed. "I know it's going to be hard. But I need to ask you: Why'd you do it?"

"You're going to have to be more specific. Try to off my self? Or cancel my subscription to Netflix? Because I find that most movies can be illegally downloaded off the internet these days."

"Why did you try to kill yourself, House?" Ratner said evenly.

"Why do you think?" House said.

"I don't know. That's why I'm here."

"Because I'm in pain," House said.

"Physical pain?"

"Duh," House said.

Ratner glanced at his chart.

"There's no indication that there's been any increase in the pain in your leg."

"Awww, it's so cute when you try to do real doctorin'," House said.

"So you're talking about emotional pain, too, right?"

"Have you been following the saga of my life, lately? It makes Anna Karenina seem like a light comedic romp."

"Yes, I know about the accident at Dr. Cuddy's."

"_Accident._ Excellent choice of euphemism, doc," House said.

"And I know you paid a high price for it."

"You do the crime, you serve the time," House said, idly.

"You've been out of prison for six months. Are you having a hard time adjusting?"

"What? To life out on the outside? This isn't Shawshank Redemption, Ratner. I'm not some sort of hardened lifer who can't adapt to the real world outside of prison. Nothing in my life has changed."

"Nothing?"

"Well, we have a new, much less attractive Dean of Medicine, but besides that. . ."

"Have you spoken to Dr. Cuddy?"

House glared at him.

"Are you kidding?"

"No. It was a genuine question. Have you reached out to her? Apologized?"

"She doesn't want to hear from me," House said, folding his arms.

"You sure about that?"

"I crashed into her house," House said. "I uprooted her life—literally and figuratively. You think she wants to—what—break bread with me? Get a mani-pedi together? She hates my guts."

"Maybe she's ready to forgive you," Ratner said.

"Only in my dreams," House sighed. Ratner gave him a knowing, Wilson-like look.

_Shit_, House thought.

"You've dreamt about her?" Ratner said.

"I dream about her all the time," House said, trying to be flip. "As if you don't."

"Do you remember your last dream about Dr. Cuddy?" Ratner asked.

"I never took you for such a pervert, Ratner" House said.

There was a long silence as the two men had a minor stand-off. It was House who blinked first.

"If you must know, I had a particularly vivid dream about her two nights ago," he said.

"Tell me about it," Ratner said.

House leaned back on the pillow. _You're such an idiot, House. Why did you even bring up the stupid dream at all?_

"Well, Cuddy was there. And Stacy. And Auntie Em. And Toto, too."

"Who's Stacy?" Ratner asked.

"Old girlfriend," muttered House.

"Before Dr. Cuddy?"

"Yes, I date them one at a time. I'm not a Mormon."

"And what do you think Stacy represented in the dream?"

"She represented my desire to fly. Oh no wait. . .that makes no sense. Actually, I'm pretty she represented herself."

"Did she talk to you in the dream?"

"Yes. Oddly though, it was in Elvish—which I don't speak."

"What did she say?"

"_Amin khiluva lle a' gurtha ar' thar_. Any idea what that means?"

"I'm serious, House."

House scratched his head.

"She told me I was pathetic," he said finally.

"Really?"

"More or less," House said.

"Tell me the more part."

"She told me that the old me would hate the new me."

"The old you?"

"Before I got sick," House said.

"I see. And. . .?"

"I agreed," House said.

"Is that all she said?"

"She told me that I was worth loving," House mumbled.

Ratner looked down at his chart, scribbled a note.

"Do you agree with that, too?"

"No," House said.

"But, of course, a part of your subconscious must believe you're worth loving. Otherwise, you wouldn't have dreamt it, right?" Ratner said.

"Ooooh, so THAT'S how the subconscious works," House said sarcastically. "Thanks for the clarification."

"And what about Dr. Cuddy. What did she say?"

House muttered something under his breath.

"I'm sorry?"

"She said that I was a part of her," House said. "And that if I died, a part of her would die too."

"Sounds like she loves you a lot, House," said Ratner.

"What part of _in my dreams _don't you understand?"

"So you really think Dr. Cuddy doesn't care about you any more?"

"No."

"Not even a little?"

"Not even a little."

"And how does that make you feel?"

"Like I want to swallow a bottle of pills. Oh wait, did that already."

Ratner shook his head.

"You know how at the airport, jokes about terrorism are taken seriously? It's kind of like that with psychiatrists. Except it's jokes about suicide," Ratner said.

"I'm not going to try to kill myself again," House said.

"Why not?"

"Because Wilson won't let me. He's got me on 24 hour surveillance."

"He's the one who found you, right?"

"Right."

"How did he even know to look for you? To break down the door?"

"You have to ask him," House said.

"Did you tell him you were contemplating suicide?"

"No. It was a spur of the moment decision—I'm spontaneous like that."

"So how did he know? Did anything happen that day?"

"No," House said.

"It was May 22. Did the date have any special significance?"

House looked down at his hands.

"It was an anniversary of sorts," House said.

"What kind of anniversary?"

"Two years since I fucked up my life for good," House said.

"Since the car crash," Ratner said, getting it.

"Bingo."

"So you tried to kill yourself on the two-year anniversary of the accident," Ratner said. He shook his head in dismay. "What a shitty thing to do to Dr. Cuddy."

"What?" House said. He sat up in his bed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"The ultimate way of telling her that you can't forgive yourself, right? And of leaving her with a lifetime of guilt."

"That's not what I meant. . .That's a complete distortion!"

"Is it?"

"Absolutely," House said.

"You know what I think House? I think that you're incapable of small gestures," Ratner said, scribbling some more notes on his chart. "You're jealous because she's seeing a new guy? You crash a car into her house. You want to say you're sorry? You try to kill yourself. Here's a better idea: Just say you're sorry."

House looked at him.

"I couldn't even if I wanted to. I don't know where she lives," he said.

"You're a resourceful guy, House. I bet you can find her phone number."

"She would never accept my call," House said.

"You won't know until you try."

House looked at him.

"I'm going to release you, House," Ratner said. "Not because I think you're well, but because I think you can do more good out of this hospital bed than it. But I'm going to insist on weekly sessions between us—non negotiable—until I say you don't need them anymore. Are those terms acceptable?"

House nodded vaguely. He was lost in thought.

"Good. I'll have my nurse call to set up a time for your next session. Good luck, House. Don't try to kill yourself again. You're too smart to be this dumb."

####

A few hours later, House was dressed and ready to check out of the hospital.

Nurse Pat, who was probably the oldest nurse on staff—closer to 70 than 60—with short gray hair and the kind of soft, plump physique than encouraged hugging, was helping him pack up.

"So they finally got sick of you and decided to let you go, huh?" she said.

House had always liked Nurse Pat: Despite her Keebler-elf-like appearance, she was tough. She didn't take any of his crap.

"It's not too late to give me one last sponge bath," House said, grinning at her. She swatted him.

"I don't want to ever see you in this ward again, you hear?" she said, seriously.

"Nurse Pat, I'm hurt," House said.

"I mean, not as a patient. You can come up and flirt with me any time, blue eyes."

"Deal," House said.

He shoved a few books that Wilson had brought and some toiletries into a duffel bag.

"Well, if one good thing came out of this whole mess it's the fact that I got to see Dr. Cuddy," Nurse Pat said, as she fiddled with some monitors near the bed.

House stopped what he was doing and stared at her.

"What?" he said.

"I was just saying that it was good to see Dr. Cuddy. It just hasn't been the same around here without her."

Her eyes suggested she had no idea that this was a revelation to him. And somehow—intuitively—he didn't want to betray his own ignorance.

"No, it hasn't," he said hoarsely.

"I always hoped you two would get married," she said, almost to herself. "Just wishful thinking from an old romantic, huh?"

"I guess," House said.

Nurse Pat handed him his release papers, and pat him on the arm. She didn't dare hug him, although she wanted to.

"And House, remember. Don't let the assholes get you down."

#####

Immediately, he stormed into Wilson's office.

Wilson looked up, surprised to see him.

"House, they let you—"

"Why didn't you tell me she was here?" House barked.

_Shit._

"How did you find out?"

"Never mind how I found out," House hissed. "Considering the fact that the last time I hallucinated I ended up in the loony bin, don't you think it was something of a _dick move_ to not tell me that Cuddy was, in fact, _here_?"

"She was here but she didn't visit you in your room," Wilson said. "At least not the night you thought she did."

House sagged into the chair across from Wilson's desk.

"You sure?" he asked.

"I mean, I was with her the whole time. She was in the waiting area."

"Oh," House said.

"But that wasn't a hallucination, House," Wilson said, reassuringly. "I'd say it was just an extremely vivid dream. And even if it was a hallucination, you were on some pretty strong meds. You're fine."

"But she definitely _was _here," House repeated.

"Yeah."

"Because of me."

"Right."

"Because she was worried about me," House said. He was having a hard time wrapping his mind around it.

"Is that really hard so difficult to believe, House?"

"Actually, yes," House said. "How did she even find out what happened?"  
>"I told her."<p>

"But why?"

"Because I knew she'd want to know."

A thought was beginning to form in House's head.

"You've been updating her on my life, haven't you?"

Wilson hesitated.

"From time to time," he said. "We talk."

"You never said a word to me," House said.

"She asked me not to."

"Where is she living?"

"I can't say."

"Is she happy?"

"House. . .I can't say."

"Then give me her phone number."

"Can't do that either."

"Don't you think it's a little unfair that you get to talk to Cuddy about me but I don't get to talk to her myself?"

"I think you forfeited your right to fairness when you drove a car through her house," Wilson said.

House flinched a bit.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said, regretting it. "That was a low blow. Look, she asked me not to give you her contact info. You have to respect that."

"Then tell her to call me," House said, stubbornly.

"I strongly doubt she's going to do that. . ."

"Then I want you to stop sharing details about my life with her. If she wants to know how I am, she needs to call me herself. I'm serious, Wilson. No more interference."

Wilson nodded reluctantly.

"I'll talk to her," he said. "But I make no promises."

#####

That night, Wilson got a call on his cell from Cuddy.

"How is he?" she asked.

"They released him today," Wilson said.

"Good."

"And. . ."

"And what?"

"And he knows you were here."

"Wilson! I told you not to—"

"It wasn't me. It must've been one of the nurses. You didn't actually think that the former Dean of Medicine was going to slip in and out of the hospital unnoticed, did you?"

Cuddy sighed.

"I suppose not," she said.

"He wants you to call him," Wilson said.

She snorted. "Yeah, right," she said.

"He told me to stop talking about him behind his back," Wilson said. "He said if you want to know how he is, you should call him yourself. And frankly I. . .agree. You obviously still care about him, Cuddy. It's been two years. Maybe it's time you two cleared the air."

There was a long silence.

"Shit," she said finally. "I really thought I was done with him."

"I know," Wilson said.

"Loving House is like a virus," Cuddy said, grimly. "It's like a virus that lies dormant in your system and unexpectedly flairs up."

"Apt analogy," Wilson said, smiling a bit. "So are you going to call him or what?"

"I don't know," she said. "I need to think."

"I'll let you think then."

They said goodnight and hung up.

Cuddy stared at her phone for a long time.

She looked at her watch. 10 pm. He'd be home for sure. Probably eating Chinese takeout from a carton and drinking scotch. Or listening to some of that depressing music he loved. Or watching one of his ridiculous reality TV shows.

She steeled herself and dialed the familiar number.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Sorry to those who think I let House off the hook too quickly in this one. This is my fifth (!) post Moving On story (there's one called The Bogeyman that is on my LJ site but I never posted here, lest you think you've lost count) and I've done some other ones where I'm much harder on him. Anyway, I hope people enjoy this. (Special thanks to V, Anne, and the Gremlin for their help on this one.) Oh, and my apologies to the Harry Potter fangirls in advance.**

House was home alone, sitting at the piano and drinking scotch. He played a few stray notes, took a swig, then played some more. He wasn't actually making music, he was killing time.

_Jokes about killing time are taken seriously, _he thought. And chuckled.

The phone rang. It was Wilson probably. Or, God forbid, a member of his team. Ever since he had tried to off himself, there had been a lot of nervous hovering, a lot of feigned casualness, a lot of people treating him like he was made of glass.

He let it ring.

The answering machine picked up:

"House? It's me—"

Upon hearing her voice, a chill actually went down his spine.

He leapt up from the piano bench, forgetting for a second that he was a cripple. Sharp pain shot down his leg. He didn't care. He lunged for the phone.

"I'm here," he panted.

"Hi," Cuddy said.

"Hi," he said.

"Are you okay? You sound out of breath."

"I'm fine. I was on the other side of the room . . .I . . . Wow. It's really you," he said.

He crumpled into the chair next to the phone.

"It's really me."

"It's good to hear your voice."

"Yours too, House."

There was a pause.

"How are you? How's Rachel?" he said finally.

"House, I didn't call for small talk," Cuddy said.

"Then why did you call?"

"To make sure you're okay. Are you?"

"What answer will keep you on the phone longer?" he cracked.

"The truth."

"I've been better," he admitted. "But I guess you know that already."

"Yeah," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't reach out to you when I came to the hospital . . I just couldn't bring myself to do it."

"I know."

"House, I've been sick with worry about you," she said. "I need you to promise me that you won't do something stupid like this ever again."

"I can't promise that," he said honestly. "But the fact that you care makes it somewhat less likely."

"That I care whether you _live or die_?" she snapped. "Don't insult me, House."

"Why should you care? I'm just the asshole who ruined your life."

"You did a terrible thing, yes," she said. "A terrible, reckless, unforgivable thing. But I can't just turn off my feelings for you. Anymore, I expect, than you can turn off your feelings for me."

"I care about you so much," he said. His voice cracked.

Cuddy sighed. She had promised herself she wasn't going to get emotional.

"I know you do, House."

"Dr. Ratner says that my . . ."

"Dr. Ratner? You talked to Andrew?"

"He had to do a psych evaluation before I could check out," House explained. "He decided I'm a miserable son-of-a-bitch. So in other words, Situation Normal, All Fucked Up."

"Snafu," Cuddy said, smiling to herself. It was a military term. House had learned it from his father.

"What else did he say?" she asked.

House was eyeing the bottle of scotch on the piano. He wished he'd had the presence of mind to grab it before he'd done his flying cripple routine across the room.

"He said that my, um, _gesture_. . .was just a fucked up way of apologizing to you," he said.

"Huh. That _is_ fucked up," she agreed.

"I told him he was full of shit," House said. "But the more I thought about it, the more I think he's right. It's been torture not being able to talk to you."

"It's the way it had to be, House."

"_Had_? Past tense?"

"Well, we're talking now, aren't we?"

"Yes," he said. "Where are you calling from?"

"You haven't Googled me?" she said. "I'm stunned. And slightly hurt."

"I guess I was afraid that if I knew where you were, I wouldn't be able to stay away," House said.

"Thank you then," she said, meaning it.

"But hypothetically speaking, how many tanks of gas would it take if I wanted to see you tonight?"

"Nice try, House."

She laughed a bit. Music to his ears.

"Did I mention how incredibly good it is to hear your voice, Cuddy?" he said, leaning back in the chair.

"Yes," she said.

"Well, it is. And did I mention that I'm sorry?"

"Not yet."

"I'm sorry. Crashing my car into your house is the single biggest regret of my miserable life. And that's saying a lot."

"Yes it is," she agreed.

"But, you know, there's actually a perverse comfort in being to be able to point to the one day you completely fucked up your life. It has a certain clarity."

"It's the biggest regret of my life, too, House."

"You didn't do anything."

"I regret that you did it _to _me," she said.

They both let her words sink in for a while.

"I want to see you," he said.

"No."

"Then can I at least call you?"

"My number is blocked. It won't even show up on your caller ID."

"Then give it me. Please."

She hesitated for a long time.

Finally, she said, "Alright. Do you have pen and paper?"

"Don't need it," he said.

As if he could ever forget her number.  
>######<p>

He called her the next night.

"When you said you were going to call, I didn't think you meant the _next night_," she said, laughing.

"Are you kidding? This is self restraint. I almost called you two hours after we hung up."

"Are you back at work?"

"Not yet. Monday," he said. He was sitting in his favorite chair. This time he had his scotch. He hadn't felt this relaxed in months.

"And Ratner? Are you going to see him again?"

"Appointment set up for Tuesday," House said.

"Good," Cuddy said. "He's the best."

"Best is a bit hyperbolic. But he's not a complete moron."

"That's high praise from you."

"How's life at the Washington International Medical Center?"

"So _now_ you Googled me," she said.

"I had some free time on my hands," he said.

"It's. . .intense," she said.

"Chief of Medicine. Not bad, Cuddy. That hospital is—what—ten times bigger than PPTH?"

"Something like that," she said.

"I'm proud of you," he said.

And she was surprised how much his words meant to her.

"Thanks."

"I always knew you were too good for this shithole," he said. "And by shithole, I'm referring to PPTH. Not me. Although both are accurate."

She laughed.

"How's Rachel?" House asked.

"She's great House. She has her fifth birthday party next weekend. Can you believe it?"

"Five. Wow," House said.

"It has a Star Wars theme," Cuddy said. "For some reason she's obsessed with Star Wars these days."

"She is?"

The news rattled House a bit. He had shown Rachel Star Wars one night when Cuddy was working late. She had slept through most of it—with her thumb in her mouth, curlred up on his lap. But she had liked the Wookie. She was always asking House to make the Wookie noise.

It had to be a coincidence, right?

"Does she have a favorite character?" he managed to ask.

"The Wookie," Cuddy said, chuckling. "But she says I don't do the noise right."

House gulped.

"Does she ever. . .ask about me?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound casual.

"No House. I'm sorry, she doesn't. She used to ask for you all the time, of course. But she saw how much I tensed up when she brought up your name—kids are intuitive like that—so she stopped."

"Yeah," House said. "Makes sense."

"Yeah. . ."

"What else?" he said, recovering from his disappointment. "Tell me everything. Tell me everything about you. And your life. About Rachel. Catch me up."

"House, we dated for a year and you never once so much as asked me how my day was at work. Now suddenly you want the blow by blow?"

"Yes," he said. "I just want to hear you talk."

So she told him. She told him about her apartment in Georgetown—how she fell in love with the hardwood floors and bay window and couldn't keep a poker face in front of the realtor so she way overpaid. She told him about her job and the other doctors and the mounds of red tape she had to deal with ("makes Princeton Plainsboro seem like a hippie commune," she said). She didn't tell him about the man she had recently begun dating—Lloyd, a pulmonologist—but she told him everything else.

He listened intently. Asked pertinent questions. Inserted the occasional joke.

And when she looked at her watch, it was 1 in the morning.

"House, I really need to go to bed," she said.

"Okay," he said. "Can I call you again?"

"Okay," she said.

####

He started calling her—almost every night.

He told her about life in prison.

"Turns out, I _can_ eat 50 eggs" he said.

"What?" Cuddy replied.

"You've never seen Cool Hand Luke?" he said. "_Really_ Cuddy?"

He told her about his new team—he described Park as Pee Wee Herman meets Margaret Cho and Adams as the She-Chase.

He didn't mention the fact that Dominika had moved in—or the fact that she was currently sleeping in the next room—but he told her everything else.

Eventually, they finished catching each other up and just started talking about their lives, about her colleagues in the new hospital—the chairman of the board was having a rather scandalous affair with the head of human resources—or something Cuddy had read that day on the web, or about Wilson's love life, or House's theory on the scam of the artisinal food movement.

And they laughed and they flirted and Cuddy found herself looking forward to the phone calls more than she cared to admit.

About two weeks after the phone calls started, Lloyd called her.

"I have two tickets for Simone Dinnerstein at the Kennedy Center Friday night," he said. "Interested?"

She loved Simone Dinnerstein.

"I'd love to," she said. "But I already have plans."

#####

They made a pact not to tell anyone about their conversations—although Cuddy did encourage House to discuss them in his sessions with Dr. Ratner— but people in the hospital noticed the curious paradox: House had just come off a suicide attempt and yet his mood seemed brighter than ever.

"What's up with you?" Wilson asked. "Only two things can make you this happy: Methadone or Cuddy."

"Maybe Ratner is just that good," House said.

"Not buying it," said Wilson.

"Well, I'm not on methadone," House said.

Wilson looked startled.

"You're talking to her?"

"That _would _explain my good mood," House said.

"Has she. . .forgiven you?"

"I never confirmed I was talking to her, Wilson. I just said it would explain my good mood."

Wilson squinted at him.

"Be careful, House. I don't want you—either of you, for that matter—to get hurt."

"Yes, sensei," House said. And bowed.

It was Ratner who told them they should talk about the accident. Address it head-on. Which let to their first fight. Or more accurately, Cuddy berating House and House sitting back and taking it.

"It was the most selfish, destructive, imbecilic thing you could've done!" she screamed.

"I know," he said.

"You could've killed people!"

"I know."

"After three months of hostility, we were just beginning to find each other again. You ruined everything!"

"I know," he said, chastened. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sick of all your God damned apologies," she said.

"I know. I'm s—"

He stopped himself.

"Let's just call it a night, okay?" she said wearily. "There's no point in hashing this out again."

"Okay," he said. "Goodnight."

And they hung up.

######

She was afraid that he wouldn't call her the next day. But he did. And they didn't mention the fight. Instead, they had a lively conversation about the curious concept of "sexy ugly"—and then they went on to together and tried to find examples of the phenomenon. (He chose Tilda Swinton. She chose Alan Rickman.)

Everything was fine between them, until about a week later, when Cuddy asked House if he was doing anything to wean himself off the vicodin.

"Why should I?" he said.

"Because you're an addict House. Because less than a month ago, you tried to kill yourself."

"But I need the pills to function."

"You didn't need the pills when we were together."

"That was different."

"Why?"

"Because I was. . . happy then."

It was the same old guilt trip. Played out two years later.

"Why do you do this?" she said. "Why do you put so much pressure on me? Why do you act like I'm the only formula to your happiness?"

"Because you are," he muttered.

"That's bullshit. I need you to start taking care of yourself, House. For you, not me. Because no one will ever love you if you don't love yourself."

"Christ, where did you read that? On a cereal box?"

"Just because it's a platitude, doesn't make it any less true."

"I'm sorry if my depression is so inconvenient for you," he said.

"Fuck you," she said.

"Fuck you right back," he said. "When are you ever going to acknowledge your role in what happened?"

"_My_ role?"

"Yeah. You led me on: Told me you didn't want me to change. You forgot to add the part where you say, 'Except I'll run at the first sign of trouble.'"

"We've been through this," she said, impatiently. "I never meant to lead you on. I thought I could do it, I couldn't."

"Well, you left behind a big fucking mess. So own up to it."

"I know," she said. "And I apologized to you. And you _accepted_ my apology. And eight hours later, you were driving a car through my dining room."

"Maybe I wouldn't have driven my car through your dining room if you'd hadn't immediately gone running to Skippy."

"Yes, House. Because I broke up with you and dared to have dinner with a new male friend, I deserved to have my life put in jeopardy."

"I didn't say that. . ."

"What are you saying?"

"I don't know what I'm saying. I just know that I'm angry, okay?"

"Well, that makes two of us."

And they hung up.

####

That night, at 3 am, Cuddy's phone rang. She looked at the number—as if there was any doubt—and picked up.

"I can't sleep," he said.

"Me neither."

"I don't want to fight anymore. It's all my fault. All of it."

"No it isn't. I've done a lot of soul-searching these past two years. I handled things horribly. You're right. I did the classic female thing: 'I love you, you're perfect. Now change.'"

"That's no excuse for what I did," House said. "You didn't deserve that. Nobody does."

"You're right," she said. "But I've forgiven you anyway. Maybe I shouldn't, but I can't help it."

"Good," he said. "But just for the record: I'll never be able to forgive myself."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

"Are you watching this ridiculous infomercial?" Cuddy said finally, trying to lighten the mood.

"With the guy with the spray on hair? Yes!"

"Does he actually think that looks . . .good?"

"It's awesome. If you're going for the psychopath-who-lives-in-his-mother's-basement look."

"I understand a lot of women find that very attractive."

"It always worked for me."

"I wonder if it comes in different colors," Cuddy said. "Not everyone can pull off that jet black look, you know."

"Oh my God, is he spraying it on his chest now?" House said.

They laughed and House continued to give a running commentary on the infomercial until Cuddy was quiet for a while and he realized she had fallen asleep. Without hanging up, he put the phone next to him on the pillow, listening to her breath, and went to sleep, too.

#####

He kept asking if he could drive out to see her and she kept saying no.

Finally, he said, "What about videophone? So at least I can at _see_ your face when we talk?"

Reluctantly, she agreed.

The next night, he put on a fresh shirt, combed his hair a bit, and called her on the videophone.

"Can you see me?" she asked.

And there she was. Blinking at the camera, trying to get in the best position to see and be seen: The most beautiful creature in the world.

"Wow. It's so good to see your face," he said.

"I'm just lucky this thing isn't in HD," she demurred.

"You're perfect," he said. It had just slipped out.

She blushed.

She was dressed casually—in a sweatshirt and jeans. But the sweatshirt was slightly oversized and it fell off her shoulder just the tiniest bit. He tried not to fixate on her bare shoulder.

He couldn't wait to see her smile. He loved the way her eyes laughed when she smiled.

#####

One night, after a particularly satisfying conversation with Cuddy, Dominika knocked on his bedroom door and stepped into the room.

"What is the name of mystery woman who makes you so happy, Mister Doctor House?"

House closed his laptop hastily.

"No one," he said.

"You have new girlfriend? I, for one, think you are a man in love."

"None of your business," he said. "And don't ever come in when I'm on the phone with her, get it? Never."

"Why so grumpy all of a sudden?" she asked. "Is it because mystery woman is there and you are here?"

"Just. . .nevermind," he said. "And remember. Don't even _think_ about coming in my room when I'm talking to her."

#####

She usually spoke to House from her home office. But for the first time since they'd begun video conferencing, Cuddy was in her bedroom, propped up against a pillow. Wearing a somewhat skimpy lace nightgown.

"House, stop staring at my cleavage," she scolded.

Busted.

"I'm sorry. I . . ."

"Let me get a robe," she said. "I'm distracting you."

"Nooooo!" he said. "Don't. You look good."

"Thanks," she said.

But he kept staring at her.

"I miss your body," he said softly.

"I see where you're going with this," she said. "I'm getting my robe. BRB."

She left the bed for a second and, when she came back, she was wearing a silk robe that tied around the waist.

He shook his head, and smiled in resignation.

"You ruin all of my fun," he said.

"Sorry, Romeo."

But the next day, she was back in the nightie—no robe—and she was obviously doing it to drive him crazy.

"Where's your robe?" he asked knowingly.

"It's hot," she said.

"I see," he said.

Now he was staring at her, brazenly.

She looked down.

"What? No witty repartee tonight?" she said.

He kept staring. His lips parted a bit.

"Just. . .touch yourself, Cuddy. Please."

"House. . ."

But she felt aroused. _Why the hell else had she worn the nightie? Brought the laptop to the bedroom?_

"Just over the nightie," he breathed. "Just touch your breast."

She looked at him. His own obvious arousal stoked hers.

She closed her eyes. Touched her breast.

"Circle it with your hand," he said.

She still hadn't lifted the nightie. But she slowly moved her hand over breast. Her nipple hardened.

"Fuck," House said.

"That's all," Cuddy said. "I shouldn't have even done that."

"No," he said. "Lift the nightie. Please."

"No, House. It's. . .late. We'll talk tomorrow okay?"

"Okay," he said, dejectedly.

The next night, she was back in her sweatshirt. And sitting in her office, not the bedroom.

He took the hint and didn't try anything. They talked about a new pizza stone she had bought.

The following night, however, she had returned to the bedroom. Mixed messages, though: She was still wearing her sweatshirt.

They talked for a while, about a case that had eluded all the brightest minds at Washington International: Without even looking at the scans, he was easily able to diagnose it as Wilson's Disease.

"Of course," she said. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"As my reward, take off that sweatshirt," he demanded.

She looked at him.

"Not going to happen, House.

"Yes. It is."

"I can't," she whispered. "Rachel's in the next room."

The fact that Rachel being in the next room was her primary deterrent filled House with incalculable joy.

"We used to have sex all the time with Rachel in the next room," he said.

"This is different."

"Why?"

"Because. . . you're not my boyfriend anymore."

"Please Cuddy. Don't make a grown man beg."

She considered the video camera for a long time. Then glanced nervously at the bedroom door to make sure Rachel wasn't awake. Then she slowly took off her sweatshirt. She arched her back a bit, so he could see her in all her glory. It was the sexiest thing House had ever laid eyes on. She wasn't wearing a bra.

He went to touch himself. Then thought that might be pushing his luck.

"Woman, you're going to be the death of me," he said.

She put her nightie back on and didn't reply.

######

A few nights later, Dominika, who had gotten a job as a hostess at a place called the Kiev Palace, came home from work.

The apartment was quiet and she wasn't sure if House was home or not.

He often had insomnia, and she was bored—thought maybe they could play cards or something—so she hoped for the best.

She knocked on the door to his bedroom. When he didn't answer, she stepped in.

There, she saw two figures undulating under the covers, and heard moaning.

"Oh my goodness. Dominika is so sorry," she said, backing up.

House stopped. He glared at her accusingly.

"Get out!" he screamed.

A woman poked her head out from under the covers. Her hair was messy and her cheeks were red and she was slightly out of breath.

Dr. Lisa Cuddy.


	4. Chapter 4

"You've _got_ to be kidding me," Cuddy said, as the statuesque woman standing in the doorway came into focus. "What the fuck is she doing here, House?"

"I live here," Dominika said, gaping at her. She was as surprised to see Cuddy as Cuddy was to see her.

Cuddy squirmed out from under House and—in one brisk move—yanked the sheets off the bed to wrap herself in. This left House completely naked.

He grabbed a pillow, covered himself.

"So Mrs. Doctor Cuddy is the mystery lady on the phone," Dominika said, musingly. (If she was moved by the sight of House naked, she didn't show it.)

Cuddy turned to House, hoping against hope that he would deny it.

"_House_?"

"It's true that she lives here," House said, scratching his chin. "But it's actually a funny story. . ."

Cuddy leapt from the bed.

"When will I learn?" she said, more disgusted with herself than with him. She hastily grabbed her clothing from the floor, and stormed past Dominika into the hallway.

"Cuddy!" House yelled. He got up, went to follow her, before realizing that:

a. He was completely naked.

b. He wasn't going to get very far without his cane, which had rolled under the bed.

"Shit!"

"Makes sense," Dominika was saying to herself. "In my country, when man drives car through house it is almost proposal of marriage."

####

Of course, he would've told Cuddy about Dominika had he known she was coming. But she surprised him.

Since the night that Cuddy had slowly taken off her sweatshirt for him—an image that provided a week's worth of jerk-off material for House—he'd been begging to come visit her.

She kept saying no, intuitively knowing that once they saw each other in person, all bets would be off. (House knew this, too. It was one of the many reasons he was clamoring for a reunion.)

But the carnal element of their relationship—always one of its more distinguishing features—was beginning to creep into their conversations on a regular basis.

One night, they got into a vivid discussion of each other's favorite body parts.

House chose Cuddy's smile.

She snorted.

"I'm serious," he protested.

"Okay, besides my smile—you liar," she said, laughing.

"Well, I could write entire sonnets about your ass," he admitted.

Cuddy chose House's long, nimble hands. ("Although your tongue would be a close second.")

This, led to their first real foray video sex, which was satisfying, as far as such things went, but hardly the same as the real deal. And from that point, every subsequent conversation was essentially a prologue to more of the same.

One day, Cuddy was totally distracted at a meeting at the hospital—she was thinking about House's turned-on voice guiding her hands, telling her precisely where to touch herself—and the thought aroused her so much she had to excuse herself and go to the bathroom.

"This is ridiculous," she said, splashing some cold water on her face and contemplating her reflection in the mirror.

So she called her friend Deb to see if she wouldn't mind having a spare 5-year-old for the night and booked a train ticket to New Jersey.

That night, House called her on videochat but no one answered.

So he called her cell.

"Is your internet down or something?" he said anxiously. "Skype isn't picking up."

"We don't need Skype," she said.

"Of course we do," he said. "How am supposed to write that second verse of my sonnet about your ass if I can't see it?"

"Then see it," she said.

"How can I. . ." and then it dawned on him.

He opened his front door.

She was standing there, with an overnight bag, smiling triumphantly at him.

"Oh my fucking God," he said.

He grabbed her and hugged her for a long time and then she was wrapping her legs around him and he was half-carrying, half-dragging her to the bedroom. And it was House's actual mouth and actual tongue all over her this time and his actual hands on her ass and hers on his and they both kept saying, "you feel so good. . .you feel so _good_ . . ." and there was no time to explain: "Hey baby. One tiny thing. The INS is breathing down my neck and I am currently cohabitating with my Green Card Wife—the very wife I brought into the picture to punish you for breaking up with me, because nobody breaks Gregory House's heart and emerges unscathed."

Which led to the situation House was in right now.

######

Now wearing pajama bottoms and a half-buttoned shirt, he limped after her in the hallway.

"Stop, _please_," he said, out of breath.

He was supremely easy to run away from, but the doctor in Cuddy—and, yes, the part of her that loved him—couldn't stand to see the pain on his face as he hobbled after her.

So she stopped, just shy of the elevator.

"This was a mistake," she said.

"No," he said. "Please let me explain."

"What's there to explain? You figured you were already married, why not enjoy the conjugal benefits as well?"

"We're not sleeping together," he said firmly. "INS got suspicious, threatened to throw me back in jail, so we're living together for appearance sake only. I swear."

Cuddy looked at him, suspiciously.

"You're not sleeping with her?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why _not_?"

"Yeah, she's hot. She's living in your apartment. Why on earth aren't you having sex with her?"

"Wait. You _want_ me to be having sex with her?"

"No. It's just that the fact that you're not makes me think you actually have feelings for her."

"Wrong," House said.

"Then, once again I ask, why not? You have no problem having sex with a busload of skanky hookers."

"Because I'm . . . married to her," House said softly. "And there's only one woman I ever want to be married to and having sex with."

Fucking bastard.

"Really?" she said, her voice softening.

"Really," he said, smiling, knowing he had won.

He leaned down and kissed her.

"Now come back to bed and let's finish what we started."

######

The next morning, House woke up—happily sore from the previous night's activities—walked into the kitchen and was horrified by what he saw: Cuddy and Dominika sitting at the kitchen table together, drinking coffee and eating toast.

"Morning," they said, in unison.

"Dominika, didn't you have that, uh, _thing_. . .you needed to be doing this morning?" he said.

"What thing?" she said, dumbly.

"You know. That thing we talked about? Over at INS?"

"There is no thing."

House rolled his eyes.

"Dominika, _get the fuck out_," he said, annoyed.

She got up.

"If you wanted Miss Dominika to leave why you not just say so?"

"I'm saying it now," he said.

After Dominika left, he poured himself a cup of coffee and kissed Cuddy on the top of her head.

"Hi," he whispered.

"You didn't have to be rude to her," Cuddy said.

"What, you two are besties now?"

"She's not that terrible," Cuddy said, with a slight smile. "She's actually happy we're back together. She said—and I quote— 'you fill up hole in Meester House's heart.'"

"There's another hole I'd like to fill up," he said, ogling her. She swatted him with her napkin.

He grinned, dropped a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster.

"Wait," he said, after a minute. "Did you just say we were back together?"

Cuddy considered it for a second.

"I guess I did," she said. "Although I'm sure I'll live to regret it."

"What's today's date?" he said, cheerfully.

"June 22. Why?"

"Two more months," he said. "I have to live with the Ukrainian mensa for two more months and then I can move to D.C. and come live with you and Rachel."

"Whoa," Cuddy said. "Isn't that little fast?"

"Fast?" House said. "What else do you need to know about me? What side of the bed I sleep on? You know that already. How I like my eggs in the morning? You know that, too. Is there anything left that we _don't _know about each other?"

"Fair enough," she said. "It's just a big step. Even when we were dating here in Jersey we didn't officially live together."

"That's because we lived 10 minutes away from each other," House said. "And it was convenient for me to have a place to stay when you got sick of me."

"Oh please. Sometimes you needed to retreat to the man cave with Wilson on your own."

"Once a guy has been to jail, the allure of the man cave is rather diminished," he said, kissing the back of her neck.

His toast popped. He put it on a plate and sat next to her.

"And what _about_ Wilson?" Cuddy said. (As if to prove House's earlier point, she handed him the blackberry jam before he even asked for it.)

"What about him?"

"I can't imagine you two living in separate states. I'll feel like Yoko Ono."

"He can visit us on weekends and major holidays," he said, adding, "We can even buy him those sheets he likes, with the dinosaurs on them."

Cuddy rested her chin in her hand and contemplated him.

"I'll have to ask Rachel," she said.

And House beamed.


End file.
